


there is a number of small things

by openended



Series: i don't look for trouble (but trouble looks for me) [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bathtubs, Canon Trans Character, Dancing, Dragons, F/M, False Accusations, First Impressions, First Time, Fluff, Found Families, Friendship, Growing Up, Insomnia, Microaggressions, Orlesian Ball, Parent Death, Passage of time, Snow, Storytelling, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age), Trans Character, Undressing, quiet moments, tent sharing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:58:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3698288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openended/pseuds/openended
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>they say "here comes a hurricane, trouble is her middle name," but i don't look for trouble, yet trouble looks for me</i>. 30 day drabble challenge for Kylie Lavellan.  (very briefly on hiatus while author gets a few life things in order)</p><p>(Kylie/Krem chapters are labeled as such; additional characters are in the chapter titles where appropriate)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. beginning (Kylie/Krem)

**Author's Note:**

> All prompts are from [this](http://bakara.co.vu/post/115485921283/genimhaled-using-the-prompts-below-write-a) drabble challenge. Corresponding tumblr posts can be found [here](http://bakara.co.vu/tagged/30kylie).

****

Krem’s seen her slip away with serving girls and stable boys alike, never showing preference for one or the other; his head knows that he shouldn’t worry. But his heart isn’t his head, and his heart worries. Kylie straddles his waist, opening her mouth to him and deepening the kiss. She has to know by now - he’s changed enough in front of her, they’ve jumped in lakes together - but he can’t remember if he’s ever actually told her. And it’s _important_.

As much as he doesn’t want to, he breaks the kiss. He smoothes his fingertips across her cheeks, tucking her hair behind her ears and then resting his hands on her shoulders. She’s frowning at him, confused. “You know, right?” It’s probably not the way he should start this conversation.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Know what?”

“About me,” he says. “That I’m not…” He trails off. The words sound hollow, wrong, caught in his throat. And Kylie’s looking at him in that quiet funny way she looks at everyone when they’re being slightly dim, worrying she’ll be upset about something she won’t be.

Kylie cups his face gently and forces him to look at her. “You’re male, yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Then so’s what’s between your legs. Krem, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Are you sure?” He slides his hands down to her hips. He’s been here before: pretty girl in his lap, ready to find a room, only to discover that it _does_ matter a few minutes later.

“I like _you_.” She leans in and kisses him, slow and deliberate. “And I’m gonna like whatever I find when I take your pants off,” she whispers against his lips.

Krem groans as she presses her hips against his. “You’ve got the room to yourself, right?”

“Was kinda hoping I’d get to share it,” she grins and slides off of him, offering her hand, leading him upstairs. 

***

Kylie sighs happily and settles against him, one arm looped around his waist. She softly kisses the side of his neck where she left a mark earlier and then lets her head rest against his shoulder. 

Krem tightens his arms, holding her close. He traces the shell of her ear, fingertips ghosting around the delicate point. Her breath shudders and he smiles - he’ll remember that for next time.

"Damn," he says, dragging his fingers down her spine. Her skin’s soft and smooth, and he doesn’t want to stop touching her, ever. 

She smiles and slides one of her legs between his. “Yeah?”

He kisses her forehead. “Yeah.” He’s had sex before, but with Kylie… _damn_. He’ll find better words, more words, later. Maybe.

Kylie pushes herself halfway up, and her smile widens. “Damn for me, too,” she whispers. 


	2. accusation (+ Cassandra)

It's not the first time she's been tossed in jail. It's not even the first time she's woken up to discover that she’s been tossed in jail.

It _is_ the first time she's found herself tossed in jail, accused of something she didn't do. 

(Hell, it's not until she overhears the two human women outside her cell that she even has an idea of what she's being blamed _for_.

She scoffs quietly and crosses her legs underneath her. She sits still, back straight, eyes closed. Her hand tingles and glows a bit green, even through her closed eyelids.

One problem at a time, here.)

Basic prisoner rules: don’t say anything, eat the food they give you (if they wanted to kill you they would’ve done it already and you’ll need energy), don’t try to escape from a prison with an unknown layout and an unknown number of guards. Chief drilled it into their heads a few years back during that business with the Crows. 

Staying silent seems to piss off Cassandra even more, but Kylie’s had practice with people who think yelling is a successful method of retrieving information and so she simply blinks, her face expressionless. She’s not afraid of the towering Seeker with the scar and the sharp cheekbones, who’s lashing out at her with something Kylie shortly recognizes as grief disguised as fury, though she probably should be. 

Kylie counts five guards in the hall, plus the two women. She can’t fight her way out, not against those odds without a staff, but if it came down to it - she has enough energy to shift and fly out. She may not make it very far, but she’ll be out of the Chantry dungeons, which is an improvement over the current situation. 

But she’s alive, and Cassandra and Leliana seem very interested in whatever’s going on with her hand so her chances of _staying_ alive for the near future are pretty good. The Chargers know where she is, and news of the explosion will reach the Chief quickly; she may have pissed him off with that last job, but he doesn’t abandon his own.

She twists her hand, a small motion concealed in shadow, cancelling the beginning glyph of her shifting spell. 

Might as well at least know what the hell they’re talking about. She didn’t even _see_ the Divine. She certainly didn’t _kill_ her.

So she asks.

“It will be easier to show you,” Cassandra says, a hint in her voice of something that Kylie can’t quite name, but definitely doesn’t like at all.

She follows the Seeker out of the Chantry, tapping her fingers against each other to charge up a lightning bolt, just in case. She squints in the sudden brightness and then up at the sky.

Funny, how they all seem to think that one tiny elf is responsible for  _that_.


	3. restless (+ Iron Bull)

By virtue of being the smallest, Kylie gets to share the tent with Bull while Cassandra and Dorian take watch.

(Later, when the Inquisition’s big enough to redirect focus to things like _plenty of tents for the Inquisitor and her party_ , there won’t be much cause for sharing, except in Emprise du Lion where it’s cold enough to freeze your tits off and sharing just makes good sense, from a self-preservation standpoint.

But right now, it’s an absurd amount of shuffling and logistics to spread what tents they _do_ have around, marking this hilltop or that creekside as An Official Camp Of The Inquisition, Which Will Be Bigger And More Impressive When We Finally Have Enough Supplies.)

It’s not the first time they’ve had to share a tent, and she doesn’t take up a whole lot of space next to him. As long as she falls asleep facing away from him, there’s not too much concern for one of his horns poking her in the eye in the middle of the night if he shifts in an unfortunate direction. 

But it’s been a while, and Bull had forgotten just how much she _fidgets_ before she falls asleep.

Starts on her back, rolls to her left, rolls all the way over to her right. Onto her stomach, punches the pillow a bit. He thinks she’s got it, because she’s quiet and still for five minutes, but then she huffs and scratches her leg and tries lying on her stomach without the pillow. 

Three minutes, this time, and she gives the pillow another try before flopping onto her back.

“Oh, for shit’s sake, Sparks,” he grumbles somewhere around her fourth back-left-right cycle.

“What?” she turns over and looks at him. The canvas is thick, but not that thick, and the camp’s firelight trickles in just enough that she can see his huge silhouette staring upward.

He sits up halfway and props himself on his elbow so he can look at her. “How does Krem put up with all this?”

She shrugs and pushes her hair out of her eyes. “He usually falls asleep while I’m reading.” It’s a skill most of the Chargers have, being able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat in any environment on any approximately-flat surface. _Most_. Despite years of working and living with them all, she’s never picked that up, needing at least an hour of lying in whatever passes for a bed before she even gets drowsy. She’s learned to pass the time by reading, but hadn’t wanted to keep him up with the light necessary to see the page.

Bull sits up all the way. He leans in front of her and fusses with the flap on her side of the tent. “There,” he says. He’s pulled it back to let enough light in, but not so much as to defeat the purpose of the flap in the first place. “You have a book, right?” Dumb question; Sparks always has a book.

Kylie nods and retrieves the book from her pack. “Don’t tell Varric it’s one of his.” She lies on her stomach with her head toward the light, pillow hugged to her chest.

He grins in the dark and lies back down. “You should talk to the Seeker about that.”

It takes her a few pages to process that. “Wait. What?”

“Go the fuck to sleep, Sparks.”


	4. snowflake (Kylie/Krem)

He follows her down the main steps of Haven and across the fresh snow. She waves at Cullen as they pass the training ground, but it’s a hesitant and sarcastic wave and Krem bites his back teeth to keep from laughing. She’s trying to see past the label of Former Templar and focus on the fact that he’s doing an admirable job leading what comically untrained forces they have so far, but changing Kylie’s opinion of people has never been one of the universe’s strong points. It’s a miracle she came around to liking Cassandra so quickly.

As they leave the town behind, footprints give way to light fennec and ram tracks and deeper druffalo trails. The snow glitters in the sunlight, shifting slightly green as the Breach swirls overhead.

‘Where are we going?” he asks her when they walk past the empty shack and through the gap in the hills.

“You’ll see,” she says, holding her arms out to keep her balance as she walks over a snow-covered rock.

Haven’s far behind them now, and he’s glad of the quiet; he doesn’t mind the clanging of swords and armor, but it’s difficult to talk to her when there’s so much going on, so many people wanting her attention.

Kylie slides down a snowbank, and lands perfectly balanced on her feet in front of a dock leading out over the frozen river. She looks over her shoulder. “Come on.”

Krem makes it down with significantly less grace, but he takes her hand and lets her lead him to the end of the dock. 

She sits, letting her legs dangle over the edge, and leans her back against his chest when he sits behind her. Her breath hitches in her throat and he wraps his arms around her waist, holding her close. Everything catches up with her, now that they have a proper moment alone. A quiet shaky gasp escapes her lips and she covers her hands with his and weaves their fingers together. 

“Kylie,” he whispers in concern. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. Her hair smells kind of boring, not like the sparky berries he’s used to. 

She shakes her head and holds his hands tighter. She doesn’t have words for the emotions raging inside of her, overwhelming her senses and thoughts; judgmental whispers when she passes, _they call me knife-ear_ , looks they think she doesn’t see, _they think I killed their Divine_ , responsibility far too big and far too heavy for her shoulders, _I can’t even spell Andraste_ , her hand hurts when she closes rifts and it’s doing something to her dreams.

Krem gathers her close as she starts to tremble. This is as close as he’ll ever see Kylie to crying; if she does cry, it’ll be later, alone. But he tucks her against him, lets her shake in his arms, and whispers that he loves her.

“Even with the freaky glowing green hand?” she asks, her voice thick with unshed tears. She brushes her thumb across his knuckles.

He smiles and rests his cheek against hers. There’s no weight behind the question; she knows he loves her no matter what, but he plays along. “You can shoot lightning from your fingers,” he says, “and make a tornado just by thinking about it. You’ll have to do better than a freaky glowing green hand.”

“It can seal rifts in the Fade,” she points out, her voice a little stronger now.

He shakes his head, grinning. “I’ve seen you turn into a bird _and_ a bear. Try harder, Sparks.”

That gets a laugh out of her and she turns and presses her forehead to his for a moment, a silent _thank you_ for cheering her up. She rests against him again, though less desperately this time.

“How’d you find this place anyway?” The dock’s clear on the other side of the river from Haven, near nothing she’d have reason to look for.

She shrugs and watches a fox scamper across the rock next to them. “I went exploring when Cassandra finally let me out of her sight. I needed to be away from... _them_.”

 _Shemlen_ , is what she means, he knows that bite to her voice. “Have they treated you alright?” He probably should’ve asked that earlier, when he first arrived. Anyone who treats her unkindly will get an equally unkind whack from his sword, and the rest of the Chargers won’t be too far behind him.

“Yeah, actually; Inquisition people, at least,” she says, surprised by her own answer. “I think Josephine said something. Threatened them with Orlesian noble crap.”

“Good.” At least those she needs to work with most closely haven’t been cruel. He’ll borrow the Chief and Grim to join him having words with the rest, if Josephine doesn’t first. 

They fall into silence, content.

As the sun starts to set in the mountains, turning everything to shades of orange and pink, it begins to snow lightly.

“We should head back,” Kylie says reluctantly. She can easily light their path if it gets too dark, but she’s starting to get cold even with Krem warm behind her, and she thinks she heard the dinner bell.

Krem stands and offers her his hand, helping her up. He brushes a few snowflakes from her hair and then hooks his finger under her chin and tilts her head upward. “Thanks for not dying,” he says lightly, though he’s quite serious.

She smiles, slightly crooked, and lifts up on her toes, closing her eyes as she brushes her lips against his. The dinner bell rings again and she steps away and takes his hand, lacing her fingers through his. She charms a little ball of light to lead their way back, and they walk hand-in-hand in silence through the snow, enjoying the quiet and the solitude before they return to the chaos of the Inquisition and Haven.


	5. haze (+ Iron Bull, Krem, Chargers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (my interpretation of this one is quite loose and also kind of opposite)

She's eleven, when she first creates a spark. 

A beautiful purple arc of energy between her fingers, crackling through the air. She doesn't tell anyone, keeps it quiet and to herself. 

This is her secret in a clan full of sharing. Something that's only for her, that isn't distributed around, that doesn't belong to the others. She steals off to the woods at night when she’s meant to be long asleep, and practices. Slowly, and by steps, she grows stronger.

She's twelve, when her mother finds out.

"Kyla," her mother whispers, and she knows to pay attention. Her mother uses affections for her, only uses her name when it’s important, _vital_. "Hide it, do not tell anyone, _emm’asha_.”

She had no desire to reveal her secret before. The urgency, the _desperation_ in _mamae_ ’s voice keeps her in the camp at nights, no longer sneaking away to practice amidst the trees. She’s close to discovering how to bring a storm with her fingertips, but she stops, tries to sleep properly again, pretend that she’s not what she is. Sleep doesn’t come easily, anymore. It won’t again.

She’s thirteen, when the others discover.

The chaos that erupts when angry sparks fly from her fingertips at the boy who pulled her hair one too many times is unlike any she’s seen before, not even when the storm spooked the halla into running. Their Keeper apologises, and she thinks he means it, when her mother falls to her knees, begging him to let her stay. But he cannot.

She understands what’s happened - the _what_ , if not grasping all the _why_ s - when her mother explains, through gritted teeth and unshed tears in the back of their tiny aravel. Spring wind blows through the open windows, heralding rain. When the raven returns, reply curled tightly and tied to his leg, she has one more night with her clan, and then she is to leave at first light to find another. One without quite so many like her.

She’s still thirteen, when the Templars come.

It’s an accident, their paths crossing. Misfortune of timing, taking the same road to different ends. The Templars take one look at the group of Dalish - three adults, one scared child trying her very best to keep her hands closed and at her sides - and figure it out.

They are not on this road to find mages, but a mage they have found. The others are warriors, with an archer the Templars didn’t see hidden in the trees, and she runs when she is told, slips out of a Templar’s grasp. Faster, harder than she’s ever run before, lungs burning and tears stinging at her eyes. She only stops running when she crosses a river and slips on a rock, twisting her ankle. She limps out of the water and curls up under a bush, out of sight even though she’s deep into the forest now.

She wants to go home, but doesn’t know where her clan is from here, doesn’t know where _any_ clan is from here. She tucks her knees to her chest, and cries until she falls asleep, wondering if the Circle wouldn’t have been quite so bad.

She’s sixteen, when the Iron Bull finds her.

Three years on her own, and she’s acquired a staff and enough belongings to require a single bag. She’s pickpocketed her way across half of Ferelden, sleeping in alienages when she needs a free roof over her head, leaving trinkets on her pillow for the children when she slips out in the early hours of the morning.

“No,” the hulking qunari says, interrupting her attempted bribe. “Stop messing with these people. Come with me.”

She hasn’t listened to anyone in three years, but he has a voice that strongly suggests to be followed, and so she does, leaving the farmer confused - but not four sovereigns poorer, as he was about to be. The qunari seems amused by the words she throws at him, cursing him for screwing up her game, losing her money that would’ve bought food for a month and possibly a room with a lukewarm bath. He shrugs, says she can come with him, or take her chances with the Templars in the hills.

She joins him, eventually tells him her name is Kylie. He shakes his head, calls her Sparks.

Just as well. _Kylie_ is not quite _Kyla_ , but it's close and she has not yet stopped missing her mother enough to let someone else almost call her by her name. 

She’s seventeen, when she first shifts into a crow.

A book, if anyone asks. She learned it from a book she found nearly rotting in a box just outside the gates to Val Royeaux. It hurts like hell and she’s sure she didn’t quite make a proper crow the first time, but she definitely turns into something crow- _shaped_ that can fly and perch and scout ahead and return to camp.

She’s useless for nearly a week afterward, sluggish and exhausted and sore. Iron Bull suggests, in the way that he suggests things whose alternatives he doesn't like, that maybe they save that trick for emergencies. She keeps trying, and in a year she’s only useless for a day and a half, two days if it’s raining.

She’s eighteen, when they pick up Dalish and Skinner.

She’s crossed paths with elves in the time since being separated from her clan, but after two years she stopped asking after clan Lavellan. She carries the name as proudly as she does her vallaslin, this is who she is. But wherever her people have gone, they are too far away from her to find now. 

Dalish is cagey about her staff, but she plays along with the staff being a bow with a glowing crystal on top, and Skinner isn’t nearly as gruff and angry if you can find her an apple.

If they’ve gotten enough looks from strangers, or overheard enough insults, they’ll sit separate from the rest and curse in their own language about shemlen, and glare at everyone who dares glance at them the wrong way. _Angry Elf Club_ , Rocky calls it. Not like they’re without reason some days.

She's twenty, when Krem nearly trips over her. 

Half a year, and she tells him her name. _Kylie_ , though, not the real one, not yet. Not for years yet (though she will, after the fever). But enough time has passed, and he is kind enough and good enough, and it doesn't ache in her chest when he says her name. Doesn't remind her of what she's lost. Reminds her of who she is _now_. Where she is, and with who.

It's two years before she realizes she likes him in a way that would like to take his pants off, another three before she does something about it.

She's twenty-eight, when she blows up the shack with the goat still in it.

Chief understands her anger - Dalish and Skinner on their toes behind her, staff and knives poised ready to strike at the asshole who hired them if Iron Bull so much as nods - but there's the job and the group and their reputation. And she nearly fucked all of it.

A delivery run far beneath their skills will suit her nicely. He sends her to Haven with a package and an order to not come back until she's cooled down a notch or ten.

She's twenty-eight, when the Temple explodes in a burst of flame and green light. She's twenty-eight, when an ancient magister rips a hole in the sky. She's twenty-eight, when she crawls out of the ashes and finds herself surrounded by swords pointed at her throat.

Cassandra Pentaghast demands to know her name. 

Fifteen years since she last heard it spoke, so long she can't remember the sound of her mother's voice, sobbing her name as she walked out of the small circle of aravels, her own shoulders shaking to keep from looking back, for fear of having to be dragged away.

She stands and squares her shoulders, tilts her head to look the Seeker in the eye.

"Kyla Lavellan," she says.


	6. flame (+ Dorian)

The elf’s a bit odd.

Not quite cagey and not quite unwilling to be here, but not overly trusting and not exactly happy about the mark on her hand, either. Dorian’s been running circles around himself ever since he got to Haven, trying to figure out exactly what it is about the Herald that’s hitting all of his warning points.

They’re knee-deep - nearly hip-deep, for her - in Redcliffe’s flooded dungeons, their backs against the wall as the Venatori charge them, when he realizes.

She whispers something under her breath and the stale, damp air starts to move and swirl. She pushes it up, breathing into it as the water starts to roll. Dorian keeps one eye on her, one eye on the Venatori, and keeps shooting fire while she plays with the air.

Lavellan twirls her staff and slams it into the stone beneath her. The waves pull upward at her command, and she flings her arms out in front of her. The storm surge heaves forward, knocking the remaining Venatori off their feet.

She’s _wild_. 

Untrained, either too controlled or not at all, she’s never once had proper instruction with a staff. She’s good with it, no question, and the lack of formal training has probably allowed her to be as flexible and creative as she is with her magic, but she could do with a lesson or two in the basics.

Later, though. They quickly finish off this batch of Venatori, but there are more; and whatever Alexius has done with time poses a more pressing concern than her magical foundations.

***

He’s trying to help. Kylie knows that, and she probably wouldn’t even object to it if she weren’t fifteen years into figuring out her magic on her own. Having a specific motion for every spell is all well and good if you’ve never picked up a staff before. 

But she’s been running on instinct for fifteen years, holding an image - a _feeling_ without words or definition - in her mind to cast her spells. Trying to change her rhythm and pattern to match Dorian’s instruction is only making her trip over her staff. And her feet.

After the sixth stumble, her weak energy barrage bouncing harmlessly off a rock, she huffs and closes her eyes, counts to three. “Dorian,” she says.

“Yes?”

“Set that,” she calmly points at a stalk of elfroot far away from the training soldiers, “on fire, please.”

He blinks twice at her and then shrugs. He waves his hands, setting the elfroot aflame.

Without taking her eyes off Dorian, she snaps her staff downward and shoots a blinding bolt of lightning into the burning plant. 

As soon as the electrical bolt hits the fire, the elfroot explodes. Fire and ash rain down upon the snow, hissing as the sparks fizzle out.

She looks up at Dorian, and waves off Cullen’s concern; the fire will be completely out in a minute. “I know how to fight,” she says. “Teach me how not to be tired at the end of it.”


	7. formal (Kylie/Krem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we go to a fancy party, and also fill a "Kylie/Krem - Wanna dance?" prompt from my inbox.

She gripes about the lessons. Hours spent in Josephine’s study, sitting on the couch folded in on herself in ways that make Josephine cringe, memorizing lineages and alliances, proper etiquette and fifteen different ways to smile. The dance lessons aren’t quite as bad - she takes to those easily, nimble on her feet, turning just at the right spot, years of spells and fighting dirty finally finding some use in noble society. But she gripes anyway.

Krem and Iron Bull and, well, the _entirety_ of the Inquisition, save the Inquisitor herself, thinks the lessons are a good idea. No, an _excellent_ idea. A _necessary_ idea.

Kylie is good at many things, but subtlety and patience are not among her strengths. Throwing her into the Winter Palace without adequate preparation would end...badly, to say the least.

She likes the spying lessons from Leliana a little better. How to linger in a shadowed stairwell, the art of speaking with one person while listening to another conversation entirely, words and names and phrases that should catch her ear over others. When she shows too much eagerness, Leliana reminds her, not unkindly, that the Winter Palace is not Kirkwall’s Lowtown: pockets are not for picking, jewels are not for stealing. She is to be representing the Inquisition, regardless of the amount of coin the attendees could stand to lose before they noticed.

After the lessons, nearly like clockwork, she finds Solas or Dorian and begs them out to the training grounds, dueling until well past sunset. If she’s particularly annoyed, angered by all the crap nobles care about that doesn’t seem to matter, Iron Bull drags her out of the tavern before she has more ale than blood in her body, and lets her wail on him with her fists and feet (and, on one singular instance, her head) until she’s worked it out of her system.

***

There’s talk amongst her advisors of Krem not attending.

It’s a logistical issue. The Inquisition is formally bringing seven people, and those seven people have assistants and attendants. The Inquisition is _in_ formally bringing quite a few more people, all handpicked for stealth, speed, skill, and subtlety.

She argues that, in a crowd of the size that’s set to leave Skyhold next week, one additional person shouldn’t even be noticed. He’ll share her tent on the way and quarters while they’re there, he doesn’t take up extra space. One bag, two if the tailor can get a suit finished in time.

But he isn’t one of Cullen’s or Leliana’s agents; he will be in plain sight and can’t be sent into the palace with a rapier at his waist. The undertones of _and he’s from Tevinter, arriving on the arm of the Inquisitor will most definitely start the evening off poorly_ aren’t even undertones, not really.

Kylie lifts her chin and narrows her eyebrows. “He’s my,” she pauses; four years and they’ve still not managed a label. _Boyfriend’_ s not right, _partner_ sounds too stiff, and they’re definitely not _married_. She huffs and starts again. “If Krem can’t go, then I’m not going.”

Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana exchange looks across the war table. They’ve all twisted and molded Kylie for this ball into someone she isn’t, and she’s largely not complained, never put her foot down, never said _no, find a way around this_. Josephine’s mind whirls, connecting people and options while Leliana contemplates the necessary information and blackmail to gather and Cullen mentally swaps a few soldiers and considers how to best hide a short sword in formalwear. 

“Of course,” Josephine says with a smile, their plans silently solidified. “I’ll inform the Empress that we will be bringing an eighth.”

Kylie relaxes, no longer primed for a fight. “Thank you,” she says, biting her lip to contain her grin to something appropriate for the war table.

***

She’s turned away from the door, fixing her earrings, when Krem returns to their room, so he gets an eyeful of the back of her dress first.

“Wow,” he says.

Kylie looks over her shoulder, grins, and does a little twirl for him.

“Wow,” he says again. She’s always beautiful, but the dress sends her soaring into _stunning_ ; shimmering ivory overlaid with gold designs, the fabric contrasts elegantly against her dark coppery skin. The dress fits snugly around her chest, accentuating her breasts in ways he didn’t know were possible, and then flares at her waist, gauzy layers flowing toward the floor, swishing around her legs as she walks. He doesn’t doubt she has at least three knives hidden beneath the skirts. 

“You aren’t so bad yourself,” she says, and stands on her toes to kiss him. He’s in the same smartly-tailored Inquisition uniform as Cullen and Bull and Solas, but given a gold sash to match her dress.

He traces her collarbone with his finger, skating over her bare skin; he pauses briefly over the faded scar on her shoulder. Orlesian fashion is not his forte, but he passed enough ladies in fancy dresses in the hall to know she will be the only one in a strapless dress. “Are you gonna cause a scandal in this?” Not that he wants her to change.

“I’m a Dalish apostate leading the Inquisition, an organization no one took seriously until about a month ago, and I’m bringing a former Tevinter soldier as my date to a fancy party thrown by the Empress of Orlais, where I will be referred to endlessly as Lady Herald and Your Worship, because everyone seems to think their god’s girlfriend spoke to me. The scandal writes itself,” she says, “Josephine helped me pick the dress. She thinks it’ll be the _height_ of fashion next season.”

“Well,” he says, “the view’s certainly nice.” 

She winks at him and sits on the stool, raising her dress enough that she can put on her shoes. Matching her dress, with heels tall enough that she can rest her chin on Krem’s shoulder but not so tall that she’s going to break her foot, and delicate straps around the ankle, they’re easily the least practical shoes she’s ever even considered wearing. But she’s practiced in them, up and down the carpet in Josephine’s office while reciting the Valmont family tree, and she stands steady on her feet.

Cullen knocks on their door, tells them they’re leaving in five minutes, and continues on down the hall with the same message.

She falters, the reality of what she’s about to walk into suddenly hitting her.

Krem brushes her hair from her eyes, her usual platinum locks dyed a brilliant navy so deep it’s nearly black, and kisses her cheek. He straightens, and offers her his arm. “My lady,” he grins.

***

Fifteen ways to smile, but the one she finds herself using the most is the sixteenth - the one Josephine didn’t teach her. The clenched-teeth, close-lipped smile that might be a sneer if she tries too hard not to scream. The smile that turns into poisoned daggers by the time it reaches her eyes, the smile with a steely spine of solid ice, the smile where she lifts on her toes just slightly, enough to be poised to strike.

That smile comes when whispered insults aren’t hushed enough, when eyes are narrowed just too far as she passes. When they speak slightly too loud, as if they expect her not to understand unless they enunciate perfectly, and when they apologize and rephrase their questions into simpler terms even when she was beginning to answer. When they direct their focus to Cullen or Leliana or Cassandra or Josephine, asking about the Inquisitor when the Inquisitor is standing right in front of them.

She clenches her teeth and seeks out Krem and Bull more frequently throughout the night than she should for propriety’s sake. But Bull talks to her about nuts and cheese dip, and Krem tells her about a pigeon that crapped on some lady out in the garden, and both men talk to her simply as the woman she _is_ for a few minutes. It’s enough to straighten her shoulders and return to the gauntlet of civil smiles for rude people, of veiled insults and backhanded remarks from people whose tongues she wishes she could scorch off.

She responds to the nobles and their behavior in a proper tone, a proper volume, and with proper words. But she tilts her head and smiles and thinks _I wouldn’t mind killing you right here, in front of all your friends, but I would probably get your worthless blood on this fancy dress_.

Her facade is likely obvious by the end, exhausted with the strain of being polite to those who don’t deserve it, but she makes it through the ball without killing someone she shouldn’t, and without actually getting blood on her dress.

***

Krem finds her out on the balcony, hands resting on the railing, staring out over the gardens and pond below. The night wind ruffles her hair and she idly plays with the charm on her necklace, a small gold Inquisition sigil. She nearly glows in the light; the shimmery powder dusted over her skin at the beginning of the night hasn’t rubbed off, not even through all the fighting.

“Hey,” he says quietly, not wanting to startle her. He leans against the railing beside her.

“Hey,” she looks up at him. “How is it in there?”

“I think they’re all drunk.”

She lifts her eyebrows slightly, and nods. “I don’t blame them.” She’d escaped soon after addressing the crowd at Celene’s side, needing space and air from all the excitement. She sticks her foot through the space in the stone bannister and wiggles her toes in the air; at Josephine’s insistence, they’d all changed out of their armor and back into their dresses and uniforms after the fight with Florianne, but she hadn’t bothered with her shoes.

The music starts up again inside, a tune Krem recognizes. He steps back and offers her his hand. “Do you want to dance?”

Her exhaustion slowly transforms into delight and she smiles widely, a real smile, one she means. “I would love to.” She takes his hand and steps in close, feeling the rest of the night fall away as he circles his arm around her waist and begins to sway in time with the music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for reference, [Kylie’s dress is #31](http://www.elle.com/runway/spring-2013-couture/g1493/zuhair-murad-spring-2013-couture/?slide=31)


	8. companion (+ Chargers)

Settling a trio into a quartet is easy. Rocky and Grim seem surprised by it, expecting the four of them to trip and stumble over each other until they figured out how to move and exist and converse.

(not to mention that Sparks is a _girl_ ; the only company of people of the female persuasion the three men are used keeping is fleeting nocturnal engagements with tavern girls and barmaids. The first time she dumps a bucket of cold water over Grim to wake him up from a night of far too much drink, he finally stops treating her like a fragile flower. It still takes him another month to allow himself to curse in front of her.)

But they don’t trip or stumble. Two days and she knows how Bull likes his cocoa, three and Rocky’s found her some proper armor, five and Grim’s helping her wash mud from her hair. A week and it’s like she was never _not_  with them, like there was never a morning without her by the fire, hood flipped up until she’s awake enough to handle conversation.

It’s a weird group, the four of them. The giant horned qunari, scarred and carrying a battleaxe bigger than half his friends. The bearded dwarf with a penchant for explosions and arrows, sometimes combined. The tall human who doesn’t talk much, but will sooner bash your head in with his shield than blink. And the tiny elven mage, quiet and reserved until she’s suddenly not.

But they’re good. _Really_ good. 

They work through the Free Marches, building up coin and name, and within two years - Bull’s Chargers have a healer, two more elves, and a reputation that extends into Orlais. 


	9. move (+ Iron Bull, high dragon)

“So there’s this dragon, right?”

Kylie makes a quiet, sarcastic noise in the back of her throat and focuses very intensely on her ale. She’s going to let the Chief tell this story, because he’s the better storyteller than she is, but he’s going to embellish enough details and leave out enough others that by the time he’s done with it, it will still _technically_ be a story about how the Iron Bull, Kylie Lavellan, Cassandra Pentaghast, and Dorian Pavus killed a dragon in the Hinterlands.

But that’s pretty much the extent of how it will match reality.

***

She’s really regretting not bringing an archer. Arrows tend to help everything, and having a third person out of direct range of the dragon’s tail and claws would be safer than just two. But she hasn’t brought an archer, and so she’s back-to-back with Dorian, flinging lightning bolt after lightning bolt into the dragonlings that just keep coming - 

(of _course_ the dragon has children in its lair; of _course it does_ )

\- while keeping an eye on Cassandra and Bull and casting a new barrier over them more frequently than she’d like.

Kylie fires a lightning bolt into an ice wall, sending shards of ice into the air, freezing the nearby dragonlings. Dorian casts a mine onto the dragonlings, and within a few seconds, everything around them explodes into tiny bits of frozen dragon. Dragon children temporarily dealt with, they turn their attentions to the adult dragon.

Who’s having a significantly more successful time avoiding damage.

She’ll never understand people like Bull and Cassandra (and Krem, for that matter), who _like_ running up to things intent on killing them. She’s good with her staff in melee, and she keeps a dagger sheathed in each boot, but given the option - she’d much rather stand back and sling magic at it. 

They’re built more sturdily than she is, that’s for sure, but the claw of a high dragon is still _the claw of a high fucking dragon_ and not even someone as large and immovable as the Iron Bull can stay standing when that claw comes sweeping down.

She and Dorian see it an instant before Bull and Cassandra do. They’re focused on the dragon’s belly, can’t see the whole beast, can’t see the claws raised in the air, glistening with something thick and dark.

“ _Move!_ ” she shouts at them, nearly a scream, and throws the strongest barrier she can manage over the two warriors. Dorian layers his barrier over hers and they both run toward the dragon, hoping to be able to help somehow if their friends don’t get out of the way in time.

Cassandra combat rolls out of the way without even looking, without even dropping her sword or accidentally stabbing herself in the process, rolls up onto one knee and bellows at the dragon, trying to distract it from its remaining target.

Iron Bull looks up in a combination of awe and terror, and dives to the ground, flattening himself as much as he can. The dragon’s claw slices through the air above his back, barely missing his skin.

Kylie flings a brutal energy barrage into the dragon’s exposed belly, sending it screaming and stumbling backward. Cassandra’s back underneath the dragon by the time Dorian has thrown a bolt of ice toward its head.

Bull stands, ignores the mud and dragon scales plastered to his chest, and roars. He charges forward with his axe.

***

She nods, when everyone looks at her for confirmation that Bull’s story is true. 

More or less. They did kill the dragon. She has new armor made out of its scales to prove it, and Bull’s got its head, probably mounted on the wall above his bed.

He told about the part where he nearly had his spine ripped open by a dragon claw, but did neglect to mention that he almost lost the other eye and barely got out of the way before it started breathing fire.

There’s also the part where the dragon managed to knock all of them down except Cassandra, who didn’t even hesitate as she kept whacking at it with her sword. He didn’t include that, either.

Or the part in the beginning, where she and Dorian were so swarmed by dragonlings that only a double blast of spirit energy got them free. (She doesn’t know why he left that part out, that was _hilarious_ ; baby dragons literally falling from the sky).

But the story’s _generally_ true. 

Bull’s showing off the cut down his arm from a dragonling - Stitches scolds him, tells him to keep that bandaged or it’ll scar in a way that’s stiff in winter - and when eyes start to turn to her, expecting her to show her brand new scars, she shrugs and takes a sip of her ale. She has a few scrapes and bruises, nothing dramatic and nothing worth showing off.

“I didn’t run _up_ to the bigass dragon,” she says, when the looks turn disappointed. She smirks. “Some of us have better self-preservation strategies than others.”


	10. silver

It’s in Ostwick’s Lower Quarter that Kylie finally finds a blacksmith willing to work with her. A year and a half of searching across Thedas, and what she needs is an aging dwarf with a shop so tiny it probably ought to be called a broom closet. Iron Bull seems to know her, trust her, and she fixes up Grim’s bent sword well enough, forges Skinner a new set of knives, and so Kylie sits down with her after dinner and lays out what she wants.

The dwarf - goes by Furlow, doesn’t give anything more than that - listens patiently while Kylie explains. Kylie has the materials, the everite and the stormheart and the rune - and she’ll put the charm onto it when it’s done, all she needs is the metalwork and enchantment. A small, thin bar of metal, combined everite and stormheart, formed with the rune into a spiral. 

(It’s clear that Furlow knows what Kylie’s after with the piece, but all she has to say about it is a nod and an impressed “Clever.”)

Furlow pulls the parchment closer and examines Kylie’s design by candlelight. “Four days,” she says. “You got someone to do the rest safely?”

“Yes.” Stitches had looked at her sideways when she brought it up to him - he’s in the habit of closing holes in his friends, not creating them - but the explanation had pulled him into agreement.

Furlow offers Kylie her hand and they shake. “See you in four days.”

***

Kylie returns after four days, and exchanges a hefty bag of gold for a much lighter pouch. She opens the leather pouch and turns it upside down into her hand so she can examine the piece. She holds it up to the light. Smooth and even, the metals have combined to a bright silver; squinting, she makes out the patterns of the rune on the inside of the spiral, glowing faintly.

Beautiful _and_ practical.

She places the spiral back in the pouch, and the pouch inside her front pocket. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” Furlow says.

There’s the rest of the job in Ostwick to finish, so it’s another three days before they’re out of the city and camped someplace sufficiently isolated and she can work on the charm. A mixture of herbs, the small vial of spirit essence she’s been carrying around in the bottom of her bag for four years, a spark, and then with a whispered word the contents of the bowl go up in a puff of purple smoke, leaving the spiral behind, covered in a thin layer of ash.

She picks up the spiral and exhales lightly, blowing away the ash. The lifeward charm's subtle vibration thrums through her fingertips; the metallooks the same, but the charm’s strong.

“Ready?” Stitches asks, running his needle through a flame.

“Yep,” she says and sits beside him, offering him the spiral.

He holds it up to her ear, makes four marks on her skin, and then gives it back to her; he needs both hands for this. With nothing more than a _hold still_ , he tilts her head to get the angle he needs, and quickly pierces four holes in her ear. 

Kylie winces slightly, but doesn’t move as Stitches threads the metal spiral through her ear.

“All done,” he says. “Leave it in for at least a month, and don’t sleep on it for a while. Let me know if it starts hurting.”

“Thanks,” she stands up and kisses his cheek. She’ll buy him a drink next time they’re at a tavern.

She walks a few steps away from camp. The charm feels a little strange; it’ll take some time to get used to it being in her ear instead of a stolen amulet looped around her neck, but otherwise she feels fine, normal. But as she gathers her magic in her fingers, she feels stronger, more powerful, the storm using the spiral as a conduit.

Closing her eyes, she takes a breath and lightly curls her fingers into a fist. On the exhale, she opens her eyes and flings her palms open. A bolt of lightning, brighter and hotter than she’s ever managed without her staff before, shoots out toward the dead log, exploding it into a pile of splinters.

“Excellent,” she whispers to herself. All but the charm was theory, a guess about what _ought_ to work based on common sense, but magic’s volatile, unpredictable. The temptation for more is strong, but she’s not going to push her luck.


	11. prepared (Kylie/Krem)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, and the scattered updates that'll happen for the next week; bit of a busy month at work. Hopefully by the end of next week I'll be back on the daily update schedule.

Stitches fixes Krem right up, pops his shoulder back into place and puts his arm in a sling, cleans up and bandages the cut and sends him on his way. He got lucky it was a hammer that hit him and not an axe; his armor's dented to all hell now, but it's not cleaved in two and he still has his arm.

He should change and take off the binder. But the moment he leaves the energy of the Chargers to climb up the tavern steps, he realizes just how very tired and just how very sore he is; the idea of anything other than falling face first into bed is an exhausting one. Holding onto the railing tighter than usual, he climbs the stairs looks for the room he's sharing with Kylie at the end of the hall. She'd stumbled and tripped until Grim picked her up and carried her on his back the rest of the way to the tavern after the fight. The tornado she managed to pull from a perfectly sunny sky quickly finished the fight the Chargers were nearly on the wrong end of, and saved anyone else from joining him and Dalish in serious injury, but left her so drained she could barely speak; she'd disappeared upstairs to sleep over an hour ago. 

Krem opens the door, and instead of a darkened room with a single candle left lit like he expected, the room glows warmly with candlelight. Kylie's sitting cross-legged on the bed, on top of the blankets, reading.

And there's a tub full of steaming water by the window.

She looks up and smiles. "You seemed like you could use a good soak," she says, nodding toward the tub. 

Exhaustion still hangs behind her voice and eyes, but her smile lights up her face, no longer forced like it was earlier. Krem spies an empty tray and plate on the floor beside the bed; Stitches must've brought her dinner when he checked on Dalish. 

The few minutes spent earlier with a bucket of cold water were only enough to get the blood and grime off, wash the mud out of his ears. He drops his bag beside hers and nods. Chief didn't spring for the full bath, it's her coin for the water and tub, and if he could, he'd pick her up and hug her right there. 

Kylie sets her book aside. "Want some help?"

"Yes, please," he says. Besides that he’s not sure he _can_ get his clothes off without help because of his shoulder, everything just _hurts_.

She stands and walks soundlessly over to him. She removes his sling first, gently straightening his arm. When he hisses and winces as she tries to lift his tunic, she stops. "How attached are you to this shirt?"

"Not."

With a nod, she steps away, rummages in her bag, and comes back with a pair of scissors. She cuts right down the middle and then slides the ruined fabric off his shoulders. She bites her lip, seeing the cut on his shoulder, and gently brushes her fingers across the bandage. 

She motions for him to sit down so she can take his boots off. Kneeling, she carefully works at the knots in his laces. She doesn't even flinch at the smell - stinky feet happen when they're cramped in boots all day, hers certainly weren’t a bouquet of flowers when she took her own boots off earlier - and tosses his socks aside too before standing up again and offering him her hand. 

His pants come off easier than his shirt and then he's standing in front of her in just his smallshorts and his binder. Her fingers linger at the edges of his shorts; when he nods, Kylie pushes his shorts down over his hips. She holds steady, letting him lean on her as he kicks them aside, and then she reaches for his binder. 

"I need a minute," he says. He always needs a little time to work himself up to taking off the bindings. Kylie's never seen him without it; it stays on during sex and she’s always turned around as he’s asked when he changes at night. But it should come off now, before he gets in the tub, or it’ll be hell to take off later.

She nods and steps away, giving him space. She trails her fingers through the water; still hot, but not quite hot enough. With a touch of her palm to the side of the tub, she heats the water up just a little more.

Krem sighs in frustration. He’s managed to get half the binder loosened, but he can’t move his injured arm much more than bending at the elbow. He’d hoped to get at least one part of his clothing off without Kylie’s assistance. “Can you help?” he asks.

"Sure," she says, and kisses his uninjured shoulder before she starts to loosen the bindings. 

Krem exhales when the straps loosen. Kylie's fingers are nimble and light, and she gently lifts the binder. He winces, he can't move his shoulder up, but this isn't something she can just cut off.

"Hang on," she whispers. She drags a chair over and stands on it so she’s tall enough, and then pulls the straps as loose as they'll go. She threads his good arm through, holding the rest of him steady, and lifts it over his head and slides it down his injured shoulder.

When she stands in front of him again, taking his hand to lead him to the tub, Krem searches her face for any indication that she doesn’t like what she sees, that she’s confused or disgusted by him. He doesn’t - he hadn’t expected to, not after they’ve been sleeping together for a few months and she’s well aware of what’s between his legs and could solidly assume what was hidden below the binder, but there’s always that grain of doubt. He hopes some day that grain will work its way loose and go away for good. 

He leans on her for balance, and steps in. He sighs, the water's just the right temperature, and with her help he eases the rest of the way in and sits down.

Kylie places a kiss on the top of his head and turns to walk away, to let him have the water all to himself. He grabs her hand. 

"It's big enough for both of us," he says. Another time, a night that didn’t come after quite such an eventful day, it might sound teasing, flirtatious, like it’s heading somewhere. But the tub _is_ big enough for both of them, she’s had as much of a strenuous day as he has, and besides - they’ve been together long enough now that he can admit to himself that he wouldn’t mind her skin against his as he relaxes.

Kylie grins and quickly strips down and slides into the tub behind him. Settling her legs on either side of him, she circles her arms around his stomach when he leans back against her. 

The heat works into his muscles, loosening and soothing the stiffness. He closes his eyes and rests his head against Kylie's shoulder. 

Kylie hums, a quiet half-remembered song from her childhood, and dips a cloth in the water and begins to wash his shoulders and back. She's gentle, keeping the cloth soft over his bruised skin. With a kiss to the back of his neck, she passes the cloth to him, letting him clean his chest and legs. She threads her fingers through his hair, lightly massaging his scalp. "Hell of a blow you took." 

"Forgot to get out of the way," he says. "Hell of a thing you did."

She smiles against his neck and shrugs. "Wouldn't have to if you'd remember to get out of the way."

"I'm trying to impress a girl," he teases.

"Oh?"

"An elf. Mage, actually. She's cute. A little mouthy, though."

She lightly swats his uninjured shoulder. "And does this girl _like_ boys who put themselves in front of giant war hammers?"

Krem catches her hand and laces his fingers through hers. "She seems to, yeah."


	12. knowledge

When she takes ill with the fever, Ciara Lavellan hasn’t seen her daughter in ten years.

She’s tried - oh but she’s tried, asking as subtly as she can when they pass close enough to human villages, writing to long-lost friends who were brought to the Circle, even searching on foot herself once when their aravels returned to the clearing where her child was made to walk away. But she has not seen her daughter since that day, has barely even had a hint.

(One farmer remembers a white-haired girl with green eyes telling him she’d make it rain over his fields if he’d pay her properly, remembers a very large scarred qunari convincing her to walk away, doesn’t remember where they went)

Lying in the back of her tiny aravel - seemingly huge in the ten years since she’s lived in it alone, despite how crowded it was with the two of them - she sweats and kicks off the sheets, stares up through the open canopy at the trees and blue sky above. It’s the same sky over all of Thedas, Kyla must see the same; though it may be rain or snow or fog above her head, it is still the same sky.

Ciara always suspected the clan’s kindness to her in the ten years since they forced her daughter to leave has been false, out of obligation; she gave birth to a mage, and their clan already had too many - somehow it is her fault the clan had to lose a child. The whispers from outside - they must think her asleep or delirious, to talk so freely so close to her bed - settle in the base of her skull, strengthen her suspicions.

 _Not the same since her girl left,_ as if Kyla’s leaving was her own choice. _Surprised she made it this long, husband first and then her child_ , as if her husband was worth anything, even twenty years dead. _There’s a tear in my robes, who will mend it now_ , as if her only value was her needle and thread.

She coughs, louder than necessary, sends the gossipers scrambling to talk about something that isn’t her or her imminent death. 

Kyla is alive, she decides, alive and well and healthy and happy. It is a good thought to die on.

(Five years later, Kylie Lavellan will return from Crestwood, soaked and damp and rather annoyed about it, to be given a report. Her clan is alive and well, and they are so very relieved to know she is alive and with the Inquisition of her own choice, but her mother is long dead and buried.)


	13. denial (+ Dalish)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly I'm failing at this "daily" concept (there's been a lot of work things), but rest assured - there _will_ be thirty parts to this.

“It’s for aiming,” Dalish says, when she first joins.

They all know she’s a mage - put all the runes you want on a bow, it’s still going to shoot _arrows_ , not flames - and trying to get her to admit it becomes a bit of a game.

(a tiresome one, for her. The lie’s blatantly obvious, and she knows it, but sometimes a lie is so garish that people actually _believe_ it, and that’s worked for her for years. She doesn’t have to lie anymore, not with these friends, but it’s such a force of habit that she sticks with it; might be nice if they backed off a bit, let her have this.)

She tried to explain the crystal to Stitches once, how it channels her energy and throws magic at her target with more power than if she’d simply stuck a pinecone on top of it. He’d made a confused face and returned to fletching his arrows, said that making a hit harder wasn’t the same as making a hit more accurate. _Technicalities_ , Dalish had thought, and went in search of Sparks.

(Sparks, with the raven skull on her staff. Sparks, not bothering to hide that she’s a mage unless the Chief tells her to. Sparks, who’s been around as long as Grim and Rocky, but is still younger than Dalish.

Dalish has questions about that sometimes. Skinner dug around for answers a few times, when the two of them first joined up, and got absolutely nowhere.)

“It’s _for aiming_ ,” Dalish says, when they’re all drinking in the Herald’s Rest. There’s not half a chance of anyone believing the lie now, but it’s worth trying to see Skinner roll her eyes toward the ceiling. There’s not much point in lying now either, what with the mage rebellion and everyone being an apostate (and the hole in the sky - which her friend somehow _closed_ \- and demons falling out of the air), but the habit’s never quite broken.

They drink a little heavier - she’s always wondered if there was a game going on she didn’t know about, _drink every time Dalish mentions aiming_ , that sort of thing - and she smirks into her ale. Sparks throws her a wink across the table and lifts her glass, a toast. 

It’s hard to get them all together like this anymore; Sparks is off being important and sometimes the Chief is off with her, Krem’s leading parts of the Chargers on rescue missions or to investigate something weird, and they’re just not in the same place that often. But there’s a crinkle to Sparks’ nose that Dalish recognizes: this is temporary.

***

These Templars haven’t quite gotten the message of who the Inquisitor is, and Kylie almost feels bad for them. Almost. She wonders where they think they’d bring her and Solas, if they actually managed to capture the two of them.

“We are authorized to detain all mages,” one says, though his voice wavers, questioning the wisdom of the situation.

Kylie shifts her weight, makes it look like she’s leaning on her staff. “You think I’m a mage? This is a walking stick, ser.”

“Then why’s there a skull on top?” the older one asks, his hand going to his sword.

She smirks, clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “It’s for aiming,” she winks, giving them a moment to process before she slams her staff into the ground, sending a chain of lightning into the two men.


End file.
